


The Shepherd's Dog

by AdderTwist



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Biting, Dark, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Murder, Murder Family, Pack Dynamics, Werewolf Bites
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:19:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdderTwist/pseuds/AdderTwist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some cravings no rare steak can fix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shepherd's Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SandyQuinn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandyQuinn/gifts), [emungere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/gifts).



> With special thanks to SandyQuinn, for being basically the best person, and to Emungere for being a prosaic, evocative, and characterization-quality inspiration the likes of which I haven't encountered in any fanwork ever before.

Thirteen weeks after their first unimpeded interaction, that moment of a cool morning where Hannibal Lecter delicately referred to them each as animals, he sits across from Will Graham, watching the subtle tic of muscles in the soft half-light.

 

The sun is setting. Will's curling hair casts tangles of shadow across his face and Hannibal thinks of oil paintings, and all the ways they are rarely composed for fear of making their subjects too sinister.

 

"I've been dreaming of hounds," Will starts, voice soft. Their conversation is beginning, like a curtain lifting, whatever trance they'd had broken for a different sort of meditation. Hannibal inclines his head just a touch.

"A specific word, hounds. Hunting hounds?"

"Hunting. Not for ducks." Will smiles, strained. "For something huge in the forest."

 

There are, of course, forests near Will's little house - stretching their dark and bare limbs up into the sky like clawing hands, touching at the silver-grey of the winter mist, they make an excellent backdrop for Will's particular breed of cloying nightmares, of that Hannibal has no doubt. Deer run further in that forest - and coyotes, of course, and a variety of other denizens, but few make viable culprits.

 

"A stag?"

"There are antlers, sometimes." Will pauses, rubs his thumb against the cloth of his shirt. "Sometimes not. Sometimes teeth."

"Have you considered the possibility that Garret Jacob Hobbs' death still lingers in the cold fog of your mindscape, obscured by his hunting and his capture?"

Will shifts, a little, in his seat, averts his eyes a little further than the norm. He takes off his glasses to clean them - a signal for trust and discomfort in equal measures.

"He's normally there in person." It's a stilted answer, and Will falls into flat silence while Hannibal considers it. Will is watching Hannibal's cufflink shine in the late and stingy rays of sunlight, rather than having to meet the eyes of someone perceptive enough to read the slivers of sharpness amongst Will's fear.

 

Will is mirroring Hannibal's movements; it happens whenever he feels cornered, as he must now - his fingers are laced, his body bowed forward, but where Hannibal's spine is straight, Will is hunched, as if hiding from the clarity of Hannibal's sight.

 

"Where he is isn't relevant right now. Where are you right now, Will?"

"It's seven-fifteen P.M., I'm in Baltimore, Maryland, my name is Will Graham. "

Hannibal lets himself give a sliver of a smile at the reflexive response. The clock ticks heavily, too far to the side for Will's vision to catch through his glasses. He's improving, and the rich smell of his fever and the silky smell of the wood mingle well with Hannibal's sense of satisfaction there.

 

 "And where are your thoughts, Will?"

There's a visible flicker of discomfort, an uneasiness, before Will admits, "They're further. Minnesota. The forests. Being hunted by hounds."

"Are you yourself?"

"I'm the man who killed Cassie Boyle. The... beast that killed her."

  
Hannibal deigns to raise his eyebrows very slightly, and can feel Will trying to take on his profound calm - and, of course, failing, breathing it in and hissing it out again like cold air in a sudden burst. Words come out in a rushing tumble, an avalanche, as if Will is desperate to prove himself something other than crazed. "I know it was a man but there was something wrong about the way she was laid out - hungry, and, and contemptuous- he was a beast, thought of himself a beast, something post-human."

"Specific, again. As opposed to superhuman, or subhuman?"

"Transcending humanity - evolved from it. I'm not -"

Hannibal gentles Will with his softness. "I wouldn't ever accuse you of it, Will. You are plagued by thoughts right now; in time, a sense of order will return. Breathe."

The command helps. As the light dims, from golden to bruise-purple, Will steadies his breathing, fingers fidgeting against his sleeve now, and, after a drawn-out time, his eyes lift attentively to Hannibal once more.

 

Hannibal very much enjoys the privilege of Will making eye contact with him and with so few others. It stirs a deep satisfaction within him, something hungry settling in the pit of his stomach as a pleasant weight.

 

He has no qualms with regards to doing everything he can to keep those elusive glances for himself. In the shadows reaching through the office, Will looks more tired and haunted than ever, the tiny stress-lines on his face etching darker before the dimness smooths them out, takes away the details of his anxiety. Of course, with all his insight, it must be difficult. All those varied and troubled minds.

 

"So you see the negative of her death, to allow you insight into the positive of Hobbs' killings. And now your dreams are coiled around the negative and seeping into it, as a strangler-fig does a tree."

There's a smile, for a moment, wan and ghosting across Will's face.

"You could say that."

His voice sounds like a rasp in the dark. Hannibal, steadying in his warmth and unshaken calm, gives a minuscule smile, and Will's smile warms in response.

 

Hannibal stands to turn on the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this as I go - hoping to update weekly or better. Let's say, uh, Thursdays.
> 
> Title from Iron & Wine.
> 
> If this fails to update, please just drop a comment! Odds are, because I'm both scatterbrained as hell and desperately insecure, I've completely forgotten what I was meant to be doing.


End file.
